<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Spilling Secrets by TwelveLeagues</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27898174">Spilling Secrets</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues'>TwelveLeagues</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Jonathan Strange &amp; Mr Norrell &amp; Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange &amp; Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Frienemies with benefits?, Gossip, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Fantasy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:21:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,584</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27898174</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> Lascelles shrugged again. “Mr. Norrell is a lonely gentleman who has never had a friend before.” Drawlight’s hand shifted, moving with subtle intent until his palm cupped Lascelles’ knee. “Not a friend of his particular nature, that is.” </i>
</p><p>Mr. Norrell’s time is entirely occupied by his new pupil and he has no attention to spare for poor, hard-working Henry Lascelles. Luckily Drawlight is available to provide gossip, distraction and a helping hand.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christopher Drawlight/Henry Lascelles, Gilbert Norrell/Jonathan Strange</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Spilling Secrets</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Do you ever wake up with an urgent list of things to do but your fingers slip and something else happens instead? Here is some gossipy Drawlight/Lascelles that is actually a not-so-secretly Strange/Norrell fic in disguise.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a dull sort of day in Hanover-square. The news was scant, both from the war and from society, and there were no ministers lingering in hopes of an audience. Even the servants, who usually had one thing or another to scurry about after, seemed to drag their feet. Mr. Lascelles had twice observed Davey roaming about the corridor with no apparent purpose. He had resolved, upon seeing him next, to demand the fellow fetch him some fruit cake, if only to give him something to do.</p><p>The sight of a man without occupation was particularly offensive to Henry Lascelles on this day, as he found himself in a similar position. It hardly pained him to be without his work, as he felt no great vocation for it, but the cause of his idleness was a source of increasing frustration to him. He had been summarily dismissed from the library, along with Drawlight and Childermass, so that Mr. Norrell might go about privately educating Jonathan Strange.</p><p>Lascelles was contemplating his ignominious position when a high-pitched exclamation pierced the silence from behind the library door. It was a peculiar squeak that was half a laugh and half a sound of excitement. Mr. Norrell made it more and more frequently in recent weeks, and only in the company of his new pupil. Lascelles considered it most unbecoming and had said so, in private and in as delicate a tone as he could muster, to Mr. Norrell on two occasions. Evidently, his counsel had fallen upon deaf ears. </p><p>Draped upon the sopha beside him, Drawlight raised his eyes from the newspaper he had been pretending to read.</p><p>“Well,” he said, shooting Lascelles a coy glance. “Mr. Norrell is in good voice today.”</p><p>“He is certainly having a more stimulating time of it than we are.” </p><p>Lascelles was in no great hurry to get to his desk and resume his correspondence with Portishead. But the sight of that heavy door, standing so rudely between himself and the fate of all English magic, was of great insult to his sensibilities.</p><p>Drawlight was watching him with the expression of tiresome cunning he employed when he was curious, bored or simply in the mood for mischief.</p><p>“How do you imagine it is, between the pair of them?” Drawlight asked, placing such an indecorous emphasis upon the word “is” that only a very great fool might not divine his meaning. Lascelles was no fool, but he was not convinced this was a subject fit for the corridor of Hanover-square. He gave a little shrug, to indicate either that he did not know what Drawlight was talking about, that he did not choose to speculate or that he had not heard Drawlight at all and his mind was fixed upon less sordid matters.</p><p>More fool him. He ought to have known that Drawlight was not so easily deterred.</p><p>“It seems evident to me,” said Drawlight with great care, “that a man with so well-formed and clever a mouth as Mr. Strange possesses would not allow it to go to waste.”</p><p>“I won’t be drawn on this,” Lascelles replied, his eyes on the closed door. “And I have no information on the matter if that’s what you’re after.”</p><p>“One hardly needs information from the likes of you,” said Drawlight. The back of his hand was brushing the outside of Lascelles’ knee. Lascelles tolerated it. There was no one around to see, after all. And a servant who saw more than he ought to could always be bribed. “A simple glance at the two of them speaks volumes.”</p><p>There was no denying that Mr. Norrell had developed an unaccountable fondness for his pupil. And indeed, if Norrell had his way, the two would doubtless have been utterly inseparable. But Strange’s part in the affair was not so easy to determine. Lascelles was not at all convinced the situation was as simple as his friend portrayed it, but he knew that Drawlight’s word was a flexible thing. When it came to gossip, it did not signify so much whether he was reporting events truthfully, confiding his own suspicions or concocting a fiction. What chiefly interested him were the revelations he might draw from his interlocutor.</p><p>“Oh yes, Henry. You may assure yourself that, as infuriating as you may find Mr. Strange, he is spending a great deal of his magical education upon his knees.”</p><p>“I do not find Strange infuriating.”</p><p>“Don’t you? I suppose he is charming, in his way. A little provincial for my tastes, I should say, but it is hardly my taste that matters,” Drawlight made this little speech with glib assurance, though both of them were well aware that little mattered more, in Drawlight’s opinion, than his own taste. His lips curled prettily and he leaned in closer. “Mr. Norrell certainly finds him charming. Wouldn’t you agree?”</p><p>“I have no opinion on the matter. You, I find quite shameless.”</p><p>“Perhaps I am. But I am also terribly interested in your opinions. I happen to know you have all sorts of opinions on all sorts of interesting subjects.”</p><p>Lascelles shrugged again. “Mr. Norrell is a lonely gentleman who has never had a friend before.” Drawlight’s hand shifted, moving with subtle intent until his palm cupped Lascelles’ knee. “Not a friend of his particular nature, that is.”</p><p>“No,” Drawlight agreed. He allowed his fingers to trace a path up Lascelles’ inner thigh. “The poor fellow knows no one who shares his own peculiar preferences.”</p><p>Lascelles exhaled heavily, eyes darting up and down the corridor. Drawlight had shifted at his side, suddenly boneless. He half reclined against Lascelles, a light but insistent weight pressed all the way against him from shoulder to knee. Lascelles wondered, as he sometimes did when Drawlight mounted these little assaults, whether Drawlight was excited by the process. Certainly Lascelles was handsome, but he had never troubled himself to look at Drawlight closely enough to be sure.</p><p>“But now he has found Mr. Strange,” Drawlight said, pitching his voice to express both breathless pleasure on Mr. Norrell’s behalf and a subtle lament for Lascelles. “The very dearest of friends. The most obedient of apprentices. And those lovely curls! Why, it is a wonder Norrell ever lets him out of his sight.”</p><p>“Shropshire,” said Lascelles with some disdain. “A few miles further out and he’d be a Welshman.”</p><p>“And Mr. Norrell would be no less taken with him.”</p><p>“Do you truly believe that?” asked Lascelles, suddenly curious despite himself. It was a dangerous question to ask, for he himself knew that Drawlight was capable of holding at least three contradictory beliefs upon a single matter. It was one of his more admirable qualities.</p><p>“I can see it quite clearly,” Drawlight said. “Mr. Jonathan Strange, lissom creature that he is, bare-chested and lovely upon a pile of those dusty old manuscripts. His eyes dark with lustful devotion. Pearlescent skin flushed with exertion and stained with ink. He would make quite the picture, don’t you agree?”</p><p>Lascelles snorted. “That is too far-fetched. Strange could strip himself naked, oil himself up and abandon his poor wife to pursue the cause of English magic, but Norrell would still throw a fit if he so much as wrinkled one page of his books.”</p><p>Drawlight made an acquiescent sort of sound, but he did not remove his hand.</p><p>“And besides,” said Lascelles, warming to his subject. He now realised that he was more wounded than he had first thought. To be left in the corridor like a misbehaving hound while Norrell mooned over his pupil was quite beyond the limits of acceptable treatment. “You have it all wrong. Strange is hardly the innocent party in this matter. Why, he has Norrell wrapped about his fingers. If either of them is dropping to his knees behind that door, I can assure you that it is not Strange.”</p><p>Drawlight cast a considering eye at the door. He drew his fingers further up Lascelles’ thigh and Lascelles had the unpleasant sense that he was being rewarded. From within the library, they heard a muffled cry from Jonathan Strange. Lascelles arched an eyebrow and Drawlight huffed dismissively.</p><p>“Nonsense,” Drawlight said. “Strange is young and he is exquisite. You could not find a person better designed for an older gentleman’s pleasure. Even an unworldly sort of man would make good use of him. Besides,” he said with a decisive tone, “Norrell is the senior magician.”</p><p>“I should not have thought your imagination so limited,” retorted Lascelles. Drawlight’s thumb was enticingly close to his prick, which had stiffened beneath his breeches. He realised now, with some bitterness, that he had rather missed the feeling of being desired and entreated. Drawlight, he decided, had earned a few choice words for his troubles. “He has the run of the place. You can see it in the way he walks, the insolent wretch.”</p><p>“Really,” breathed Drawlight. His hand was closer, now. Lascelles gritted his teeth. “Do tell me more.”</p><p>“The old man is besotted. Strange could bend him over his own desk, prop up a book of magic on his back and fuck him senseless. Norrell would thank him for it very prettily, I should think.”</p><p>“Why, Henry!” Drawlight exclaimed with a scandalised air. But it was clear that he had said the right thing, for Drawlight’s palm moved higher and settled between his legs. Lascelles stifled a gasp. “If only you’d observed this unfortunate proclivity of Mr. Norrell’s sooner, you might have taken advantage of it.”</p><p>The thought, in fact, had occurred to Lascelles, and it did not fill him with happiness to hear it given voice. He shifted upwards into Drawlight’s crafty palm. “Catch me sucking off the help first,” he bit out.</p><p>“Well, that is surely a discussion for another time,” said Drawlight with ill-disguised interest, and Lascelles muffled a curse in his fist. Drawlight’s hand moved with light precision, unfastening Lascelles’ breeches and drawing him out. </p><p>“Oh, go on then,” said Lascelles, one eye on the distant corridor as Drawlight made a low sound of approval. “But make it quick.”</p><p>“Must you go out of your way to offend me?” Drawlight sounded pained, his breath tickling Lascelles’ ear. But his grip was businesslike and there was no teasing in the touch now. Lascelles squeezed his eyes closed, searching for an image that was not Drawlight’s dainty hand on his prick. His first thought was of Norrell and Strange in all manner of eye-watering combinations, and then John Childermass with that unpleasant smile playing at his lips. And then, as Drawlight murmured something obsequious and nonsensical in his ear, his thoughts were drawn irrevocably back to Drawlight himself. Christopher Drawlight, with his deft hands and his foolish little pleasures and his relentless willingness to please.</p><p>“There,” said Drawlight happily as Lascelles spilled himself. He had a handkerchief ready, as he always did in such moments, and he applied it diligently to the mess before it could stain Lascelles’ clothes. If Lascelles were feeling generous — and generosity was a weakness he only indulged in moments like these — he might have admitted that he would only risk such behaviour with as practiced a seducer as his friend. He watched through half-lidded eyes as Drawlight cleaned him and tucked him away. A musty smell hung about the room. It offended Lascelles’ sensibilities, though it occurred to him that perhaps, in some distant sort of way, he was partially responsible for it.</p><p>Drawlight peered at him. “You must not feel despondent, Henry. You know that I am applying all of my resources to the problem of Mr. Strange.”</p><p>“I do not know why you persist in such foolishness,” said Lascelles, rising to his feet and slipping easily back into the well-worn argument. “The two of them are as stubborn as mules. Give them enough time and they will resolve the matter on their own.”</p><p>He was in need of some refreshment, he decided. Davey had not made his way back to the corridor, after all. This would have been all for the best, were it not for the fact that Lascelles, having set his heart upon a slice of fruit cake, now had no body to ask for one.</p><p>“You are quite right,” said Drawlight, trotting beside him. “Even the very closest of friends can find themselves at odds, no matter how inseparable they might appear. It is always a very great shame when it occurs, but it is almost an inevitability.” He paused, as if struck by a momentary and uncharacteristic self awareness, and put his arm through Lascelles’. “It is a good thing that our own partnership is made of sterner stuff, is it not?”</p><p>“Yes, of course,” said Lascelles absently. He felt sated and heavy, so much so that it did not even occur to him to pull his arm loose. “Come along, will you? I’m in need of something sweet.”</p><p> </p><p>In the library, Jonathan Strange took his seat, worn out by a long and impromptu discourse on the properties of starlings’ feathers and their possible use in magic. While he felt no animosity towards the humble English starling, he had insisted, he felt that there were more powerful birds whose feathers a magician might consider when attempting to harness the power of flight. Birds, he had added in a tone of utmost significance, with a greater historical connection to both England and magic.</p><p>This was not a pronouncement that brought joy to Mr. Norrell’s soul, even after a morning of magical discussion that had otherwise served to delight and intrigue him. He had listened to Strange with his heart tripping, heat rising in his throat. Mr. Strange himself grew quite animated upon the subject, and by the time he felt he had made his point, there was a fine sheen of sweat upon his brow. Mr. Norrell handed him a handkerchief. His eyes lingered on Strange’s flushed cheeks as Strange dabbed at his forehead and then handed the cloth back with a sheepish expression.</p><p>“You must forgive me, sir,” he said, as though stunned by his own feeling upon the matter. “I can only assume that a little of your own passion for magic has rubbed off on me.”</p><p>“It is only to be expected,” said Mr. Norrell. He folded the handkerchief and, apparently without conscious thought, tucked it into his breast pocket. He looked up at Strange and moistened his pale, dry lips. “It is quite unlike any other discipline. I flatter myself that I am the most even-tempered of men, but upon the subject of magic, I often find myself quite...” he trailed off, watching as Jonathan Strange slumped elegantly in his chair. </p><p>“Overcome?” </p><p>“Yes. Yes, I think that is just the word for it. Overcome.”</p><p>Strange flashed him an exhausted smile and Mr. Norrell could not help but return it. In the wake of their dispute, each man felt that he understood his fellow magician a little better, though in truth neither of them quite knew what it was that he now understood.</p><p>As the astute reader may have deduced, Drawlight and Lascelles were correct in their suspicions. But only up to a point. It was true that England’s two foremost magicians were quite hopelessly in love. Unhappily, however, neither of them had the slightest idea of the fact. And since it was not in either Lascelles’ or Drawlight’s interest to encourage or draw attention to their feelings, they would neither of them realise it for a great many years.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>